Mindy drew a tight breath and touched a finger to her lips, trying to hold back another burst of laughter. But as she looked up, it wasn’t easy.
The man really was preening.
As she stared, he smoothed the front of his tweed Argyll jacket. This time he wore the jacket, rather than slinging it artfully over one shoulder. He held out a copy of his book to her.
Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Scottish Myth and Legend.
Mindy didn’t take it.
But good manners made her say, “Hi. Mindy Menlove.”
“Ahhh, the American.” He continued to proffer the book. “You’re quite the local hero. I was wondering when you’d come to a signing.”
“I’m here for lunch, actually.” Mindy glanced about, pretending to look for a seat.
What she wanted to do was get the blazes away from him.
“I heard they have really good food here.” She craned her neck to peer past him. “I’m thinking of fish-and-chips or maybe a steak and ale pie. Something rib-sticking, you know?”
Wee Hughie went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I have copies of my other books back on the table if you’ve already read this one. They were”—he cleared his throat again—“all best sellers. The National Trust for Scotland carries them in their gift shops. Culloden can’t keep them in stock.”
“I’m not a reader.” Mindy loved books.
She also spotted an empty table against the wall and made to scoot past him. But before she did, she recalled Jock’s suspicions about the author being on Barra because of the MacNeils’ half-mythic sword.
It was a sword she now believed was Bran’s.
And that changed everything.
This time it was Mindy who cleared her throat. “Ehhh . . .” Her tongue played hooky again. She so hated doing this. Pompous people really grated on her nerves. But the lesser evil sometimes brought great rewards.
And Bran of Barra was worth the pain.
She’d been kidding herself to think she could ignore what was between them. She meant to go after him.
And if the Highland Storyweaver could help her . . .
So be it.
She looked up at the author, wishing he were a few inches shorter. “Can we talk?”
He took her elbow, gently moving her aside as a family with four children surged through the door. They headed straight for the back table where his books were stacked, waiting to be signed.
Mindy recognized the family from the Oban ferry.
Wee Hughie nodded a greeting to them, and then turned back to her. “As you’re not a reader, it doesn’t seem likely, but if you’re wanting to ask me how to get published, I do run online writing courses from my Web site.
“Here, I’ll give you my card.” He looked down, reaching to unclasp his sporran. “My rates are very reasonable. I only charge—”
“No.” Mindy shook her head. “I’m not a writer, either, and don’t want to be. I . . .” She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “I want to talk to you about the Barra sword. The Heartbreaker—”
“You’ve heard of it?” His brows arced. “Not many people know the sword’s true name.”
Mindy’s heart almost stopped on his words.
They were confirmation that Bran’s sword was the fabled one.
But she didn’t want the Highland Storyweaver to know that, so she pretended her heart wasn’t beating as fast as it was, and lied. “Well,” she began, “I did live in the Folly, you know. That’s what the tower was called, back in the States. The name Heartbreaker was bandied about now and then, but no one really knew the legend of the sword.
“I was hoping you”—man, she hated this—“might be able to tell me?”
She wouldn’t believe it possible, but Wee Hughie’s chest puffed even more. “I’ve written a chapter about the sword for my next book,
More Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Clan Legend and Lore
. If you’ll wait until after the last of my fans leave, I’ll tell you all I know.”
“That’d be wonderful. Thank you.” Mindy smiled, feeling like such a hypocrite.
She did want to hear the legend, but Wee Hughie was so oily, she feared she’d float like a duck after speaking with him.
So when he left her to return to his signing table, she did the only thing a girl in distress could do. She went straight to the bar and ordered the Hungry Islesman’s Steak and Ale Pie along with—she was so bad—a double side of the pub’s supposedly famous hand-cut chips.
French fries to Americans.
And a favorite comfort food to her.
Thus fortified, she knew she’d be able to stomach the author’s peacocking. And, she hoped, learn as much from him as possible.
She already knew the Heartbreaker was important.
Something told her it might be even more crucial than she realized.
Possibly even her ticket to Bran.
“The truth of the sword?
”
Just saying the words sent a chill down Mindy’s spine. It was hours later—she couldn’t believe how many people had wanted a signed copy of Wee Hughie’s book—and she sat at a quiet corner table with the author, listening to him regale her with his knowledge of the Heartbreaker’s legend.
She was also trying not to feel so stuffed, having eaten every bite of her delicious Hungry Islesman’s Steak and Ale Pie and also the two sides of the specialty hand-cut chips.
For a potato zealot like her, it hadn’t been a breach of food etiquette to eat fries with a meat pie that was served with a mashed-potato crust.
It’d been a decadent indulgence.
The aroma of her meal still hung in the air above the table, especially the smell of the somewhat-greasy but scrumptious chips.
They’d been
good greasy,
and if she weren’t so reluctant to embarrass herself, she’d order a third portion. The lingering smell was making her mouth water again.
But she resisted and took another sip of her Hen’s Tooth ale. A stronger version of the highly rated Speckled Hen ale that the Highland Storyweaver was drinking, it was incredibly potent.
She’d opted for the double-barreled brew, thinking she might need its extra bang.
Now, having heard Wee Hughie’s account of the fabled MacNeil blade, she was glad she’d chosen so wisely. Unfortunately, the Hen’s Tooth ale was making it a tad difficult to concentrate on the author’s ramblings.
And for all his apparent wisdom, he
was
long-winded.
She blinked when a huge dog crawled out from beneath a nearby table and shook himself, before dutifully following his departing owners to the door. For a moment, she’d thought the beast was Gibbie.
Seeing that he wasn’t, she felt a pang of disappointment.
“So-o-o . . .” She set down her pint glass a bit too hastily and looked at the author. “You’re saying the shimmering blue light that comes out of the sword hilt’s crystal pommel stone is called the
truth of the sword
?”
Wee Hughie nodded. “That’s what my research indicates, aye.” He took a healthy pull of his own Speckled Hen ale. “The title does correspond with everything we know about the legendary blade and”—he leaned across the table, lowering his voice—“might even support popular belief about the origin of the sword’s powers.”
Mindy blinked. “I’m sorry. What did you say those powers were again?”
To her best recollection, he hadn’t yet said anything about mating.
And that was what she was most eager to hear.
Wee Hughie straightened, taking on an almost regal bearing. “Legend claims the sword has many powers. Sadly, only a few of the stories have been passed down through the centuries. Those we know of, we have thanks to Highland oral tradition. Among the most interesting tales is that the sword chose its master. Whenever the blade changed hands, the switch occurred because the Heartbreaker is said to have magically appeared in the new owner’s hand.
“Always”—he smiled—“at a most propitious moment, of course.”
“Of course.” Mindy eyed her half- full glass of Hen’s Tooth, but resisted.
She didn’t have any qualms about prodding Wee Hughie. “Didn’t you say something about women and the sword?”
“There’s quite a bit of lore concerning women and the Heartbreaker.” Wee Hughie sat back. He inhaled deeply and then released a gusty breath. “Some historians have claimed that, at times, a woman’s distress could unleash the pommel crystal’s magic.
“It’s believed these were women of MacNeil blood. Or they were females who were somehow bound to a MacNeil man, most often a chieftain.”
He looked at Mindy as if expecting some response, so she nodded.
Apparently appeased, he continued. “Whoever the woman might be, the pommel stone’s blue light—
the truth of the sword
—always sought and revealed the MacNeil male destined to champion her.”
“Was he also destined to mate with her?” Mindy couldn’t resist.
The Highland Storyweaver didn’t miss a beat. “Who knows? In olden times, men who championed a particular maid often did wed her.”
“I meant, were they fated to be together?” She was so pathetic.
Wee Hughie didn’t appear at all put out. “I’d think so. Certainly the myth and lore surrounding the sword are indicative of such unions. Any pairing born of the blade might as well have been carved in stone.”
Mindy tucked her hair behind one ear. Her heart was beginning to skitter. “Is that what you meant when you said the title
the truth of the sword
supports the stories about the source of the sword’s powers?
“Because”—she sought the right words—“the sword brings together men and women destined for each other?”
“Not exactly.” He dashed her hopes. “Though you could certainly put it that way.”
Mindy brightened.
He fell silent for a moment as the kitchen door opened near them and a man hastened past, carrying a huge tray filled with steaming plates of fish-and-chips. Mindy looked after him, half afraid her stomach would rumble again.
Everything smelled so delicious.
Wee Hughie gripped the table edge and leaned forward, reclaiming her attention. “What I meant”—he sounded self-important—“was what no one but myself has yet managed to put together, the significance behind the sword’s various monikers and the true origin of its power.”
“I’m all ears.” Mindy was.
Wee Hughie slid a glance at the neighboring tables. “Remember I told you that the sword’s crystal pommel stone was believed to be enchanted?” He looked pleased when she nodded. “Well”—he drew a breath—“as I said, legend holds that the gemstone was formed by the tears of a MacNeil ancestress who lost her love in an ancient battle.”
He paused, waiting as the proprietor hurried past their table again, this time returning to the kitchen with an empty tray.
As soon as the door swung shut behind him, Wee Hughie pinned her with his blue gaze. “The wording
truth of the sword
doesn’t just refer to the blade’s magical blue light. I believe the term was chosen because Veleda, the storied ancestress, was one of the Vala.”
“The Vala?”
“They were a race of half-mythic Norse prophetesses. Sometimes called Norns, their gift of divination was incredibly powerful. They were highly revered, their foretelling never doubted.”
Mindy could feel her eyes rounding. “Are you saying the MacNeils are descended from Norse gods?”
Wee Hughie flicked a bead of condensation off his pint glass. “They could well be.” He looked up. “After all, the Norse did rule the Hebrides for four hundred years. I’m only stating the history as I’ve researched it.
“No one today can say for sure if Veleda was one of the Vala. But she
was
Viking. And she did lose her MacNeil husband in a ferocious sea battle.”
He smiled and flattened his hands on the table. “Those are the facts, indisputable. If Veleda was a Vala, then the powers ascribed to the Heartbreaker would have been formidable. I’d even say that those known to us are just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.”
“Wow.” Mindy couldn’t help herself.
“Exactly.” The Highland Storyweaver sounded pleased.
Mindy couldn’t fault him. He’d told quite a tale.
“Do you think the sword is around here somewhere?” She had to ask.
Wee Hughie reached for his pint glass, draining it. “If it is, someone would surely have found it by now. Such artifacts can bring a generous finder’s fee, not to mention fame if, as with the Heartbreaker, such a treasure is legendary.
“Then there are those who sell such relics on the black market.” The distaste in his voice negated any remaining suspicion that he might be a sword thief. “They turn an even greater profit.
“So, nae, I don’t believe the sword is here. Though”—he considered—“it could well be somewhere in the stones you brought over from the States. If it is, I hope it’s never found.”
Mindy lifted a brow, curious. “I would have thought you’d like to see it.”
“Ah, well . . .” He leaned back, his gingery hair glinting in the light of a wall lantern. “Of course, I’d be keen to have a look. But the risk of having the sword exploited wouldn’t be worth it. I enjoy writing about such treasures and their history. I’d hate to see the Heartbreaker paraded about like a circus piece.”
“I doubt there’s any danger of that.” Mindy broke down and took a small sip of her Hen’s Tooth ale. “If it’s not here anywhere, I’m sure it wasn’t at the Folly. The American MacNeils would have displayed it if it was.”
She was positive of that.
She didn’t mention that the sword was depicted on the two portraits of Bran that had hung in the castle. She couldn’t recall any of the other portrait ancestrals wearing the Heartbreaker, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been in their possession.
Wee Hughie waved his empty pint glass at her. “Another ale?”
